Game On
by grannysknitting
Summary: A follow on from the end of season one. They get home. Sherlock comes to a decision. John decides to point out his mistake. Game On Boys. in six parts
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – as always… the characters and settings as depicted by the BBC series are not mine. No money is being made (unfortunately). Plot is mine.

**Game On**

It isn't until the day after The Pool – and yes, the capitals _are_ supposed to be there, he was turned into a walking, talking IED and that deserves capital letters at the _very _least – that Sherlock made his grand announcement. John wasn't sure he'd heard the man correctly at first. Sherlock hated to repeat himself, but since what John thought he'd heard was so very, incredibly, fantastically wrong, the thin genius would just have to suck it up and repeat himself.

"Come again?" John put down the cup of tea – the first cup of the morning and one that he preferred to savour as it was often the only one he'd get to drink while stationary – he'd been cradling and tilted his head at the curly haired burke who was posed dramatically against the fireplace.

"I said that you can no longer work with me," Sherlock repeated, narrowing his eyes at John in a way that the doctor thought was supposed to make him look intimidating. It made him look peevishly short-sighted, but John hadn't the heart to tell his flatmate that.

"And why, pray tell, is that?" John asked in his mildest, I-am-not-going-to-dismember-you-just-yet voice. He was no genius detective, but John had been half expecting this from the moment they left the pool last night. All that remained to determine was the reason that Sherlock was cutting ties with John. There was only one that would be accepted and John very much doubted that it had even occurred to Sherlock.

"Because you're a liability," Sherlock sniffed, apparently not realising he was courting a proper Telling Off, "You're far too easy to kidnap. I can't be constantly worried that you're in the hands of the enemy."

"I see," John nodded, paused for effect and then shook his head. A small part of him was meanly glad when Sherlock's face fell slightly, "No, actually, I don't. Too easy to kidnap? Which orifice did you pull that one out of?"

"There's no need to be crude, John," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, all posh school sensibilities and offended maiden aunt. That look was also probably not what he was going for either, but again, John didn't like to disturb Sherlock's sensibilities. Sherlock was already disturbed enough as it was, really.

"There is every need to be crude, Sherlock, but I'm restraining myself," John replied in his most patient and patronising tone. Sherlock hadn't heard that one yet and for a moment he looked like a startled owl, "And I'm waiting for your explanation."

"Within hours of meeting me, my brother kidnapped you and drove you clear across London. Granted you had a psychosomatic limp at the time, which might have hampered you slightly, but still," Sherlock began. John held up a hand like a constable directing traffic and was impressed when it actually worked. It was always best, he found, to cut Sherlock off before he got up a properly dramatic head of steam. It made the ensuing argument easier to manage.

"Mycroft didn't kidnap me, Sherlock," John corrected, "He stalked me through the CCTV, made some phones ring, made a completely pathetic threat and then had his car pull up and the driver open a door for me. I got in of my own free will – out of curiosity before you ask – and despite the child locked doors and windows I could have gotten out again at any time. What's your next excuse?"

Itemised arguments were also the best way to proceed with Sherlock. Trial and error had revealed that it was important to address things in the proper order or he'd stalk off in a huff.

"Moriarty also kidnapped you and you'll never convince me that you gave in of your own free will," Sherlock snapped; reluctant triumph in his tone and his eyes.

And that was the reason that John didn't believe for a second that Sherlock wanted him gone. Sherlock was being Good and Protective, something that didn't come naturally and said everything about how much he really valued John's friendship and presence during the Work.

'Sociopath my arse,' John thought fondly. It was always fascinating to watch Sherlock navigate the waters of friendship. That didn't mean the genius was about to get his own way in anything, however.

"Of course I didn't give in of my own free will, you numpty," John retorted, "He used a tranquiliser dart, shot from what must have been a ruger rifle which had been modified to take one and hit me from behind. I staggered into an alley trying to get away and managed to knock out two of his … lets call them henchmen… before the drugs took hold and put me down. I woke up already strapped to the semtex and wired for sound. By the time you swanked in I was only just coherent, or did you think that it was normal practice for me to faint with relief like some Victorian heroine once you got the semtex off?"

Sherlock got quieter and paler the longer John spoke, perhaps in response to the sheer fury in John's voice and face. John rarely took this tone with Sherlock – he did exasperation and disapproval, but rarely did he give vent to true fury.

"The only person who has actually managed to catch me off guard was General Chan's little flunky, and for the record I wasn't exactly thinking with the head on my shoulders when I opened our front door to the Chinese man delivering the Chinese food I'd ordered," John stood up, abandoning his morning cup of tea in his effort to make his point. Sherlock and the Work had been the saving of him and he was damned if he was going back to those dark and broken days now.

"So I'll make a little deal with you, Sherlock Holmes. If you manage to sneak up and kidnap me any time in the next week, then I will move out," John jabbed a finger into the thin chest, relishing the shock in his friend's eyes. This was quickly replaced by Sherlock's overweening character flaw – hubris.

"That is hardly a challenge, John, given our mental disparities," Sherlock replied. John grinned at him and gave the only answer that would force Sherlock into playing along. A lot was riding on this little challenge and he wanted Sherlock to bring his best game. For all that he was a genius; the man leaning against the mantelpiece could be astoundingly obtuse at times.

"Game on, then."

&%&%


	2. Chapter 2

**The First Attempt**

John lifted his head and fumbled for his phone. Brilliant. Too soon to get up but too late to sleep more before he had to get up anyway. Deciding that he might as well get it over with, he dropped the phone back onto his bedside table and gritted his teeth. The left shoulder was always stiffer and more painful in the morning; something that was getting worse as the cold weather well and truly set in.

Upright, but not happy about it, John stumbled for the door, still more asleep than awake and trying not to disturb the nagging ache of his shoulder more than he absolutely had to until he could stand under the shower and let the hot water work its magic.

He opened it, ducked to the left, tripped his off balance flatmate who was trying to adjust for John not being where he so obviously was supposed to be and shuffled towards the bathroom door. As he shuffled he mused that kicking the other man in the back of the knee was not exactly Marquis of Queensbury rules, but then again neither was lurking outside of your flatmates room with a cosh. Said cosh was kicked down the stairs, clattering to the bottom in a very annoying manner. John made a mental note to make sure it was picked up later, as Sherlock certainly wouldn't bother. The last thing they needed was for Mrs Hudson to fall down the stairs and actually _break _her dodgy hip.

"Try harder, Sherlock," John tossed the grumpy comment over his shoulder and locked the bathroom door behind him, heading for the loo.

The swearing on the landing was hair curling. No pun intended.

%&%&


	3. Chapter 3

**The Second Attempt**

Returning to the flat that afternoon was something of a relief. His breakup with Sarah had not been pleasant. She had insisted that he leave Sherlock for 'his own good' and John had insisted that Sherlock was a good bloke – it was the criminals that were the problem.

He couldn't understand how people were unable to see beneath the surface that Sherlock presented to what was really going on. Yes there was dramatics and a certain lack of common manners – and sometimes common _sense_ – but Sherlock was, on the whole, a great man and John didn't want to miss a minute of it. Lestrade understood – Lestrade had seen through the trappings of the junkie and the bitterness of a thwarted little brother to the brilliant man underneath. Sherlock may not count Lestrade as a friend or even a peer, but on some level John's friend had found a colleague he valued.

Which, in the world of Sherlock, translated to 'torment and abuse said individual at every opportunity'.

The only thing on Johns' mind as he entered the flat was 'tea'. Most blokes went to the pub after they were dumped, but all John wanted right now was to sit down in the comfort of his own chair and drink a cup of tea. He'd even welcome the sound of Sherlock committing mayhem somewhere in the vicinity.

Milk was always an iffy proposition in their flat. They'd either run out, it had gone off, or Sherlock was using it for an experiment. Today John's luck was in – there was just enough in the carton to make one cup of tea and it didn't smell 'off'. As Sherlock was not in evidence, John had no compunction about making a cup for himself only, splashing in the last of the milk and letting the tea bag steep it a glorious pink/brown before settling in his armchair and taking a careful sip.

Perfection. It was exactly the right temperature and the flat was exactly the right temperature and the quality of silence was perfect for once. Breathing slowing and eyes at half mast, John let himself drift off, mug clutched in one hand on the arm of his chair.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock slid silently out from under the couch. Moving with utmost grace he ghosted across the floor, not even a whisper of sound betraying his movement. He paused for a moment, smirking at the unconscious man in the chair and then took that final step forward, intending to bind John in place with a roll of duck tape that Mrs Hudson had purchased for home repairs last month.

It was at that point that John flicked his tea in Sherlock's face; snatching the duck tape from his flatmates startled grip and pinning the man to the floor in a single fluid move.

"The milk wasn't tampered with!" Sherlock protested glaring at the amused eyes above him.

"The tea bags were," John replied, chuckling now that he'd made his point. He got up and lent a hand to Sherlock as well, "Constant vigilance, laddie."

The quote sailed right over Sherlock's head of course. John watched his flatmate stomp off in a soggy huff and headed for a towel to wipe up the spilt tea.

"Don't bother making another, John! I'll take you out to dinner," Sherlock called.

"What? Why?" John asked, his hackles rising at once.

"Isn't that what men do when their flatmate is dumped?" Sherlock swept back into the kitchen, a slight frown on his face, "I was sure I'd read that on line…"

"Thanks, Sherlock," John grinned and went to collect his own coat.

That little effort right there was one of the many reasons that John stayed.

%&%&


	4. Chapter 4

**The Third Attempt**

Greg looked up and grinned. There was something about John Watson and the way he smiled that made you grin along in sympathy. Whatever it was that was amusing Sherlock Holmes' only friend, it was sure to be shared over their first pint. After the day he'd been having, Greg could use a humorous story.

"I'll get the round in, shall I?" John said by way of greeting as he reached Lestrade's' table. Greg shook his hand in reply: not only did John have the fortitude to room with the lunatic known as Sherlock Holmes, he had his priorities right.

"You know what I like," Lestrade agreed and John dumped his coat on a chair and headed over to the bar.

While the good doctor was ordering, a group of young blokes entered the pub in floods of laughter, one of them with a net draped over his shoulder in the style of a fisherman in from a long day on the boats. There were a few mixed comments about 'the one that got away' and 'too small to keep' bantered about as they crossed the floor, earning them several bemused or annoyed looks. The lads bellied up to the bar and John stepped around them, three glasses in his hands.

That was unusual. Usually it was two pints – Greg's ale and John's cider – and sometimes they got wild and shared a plate of chips or something with the alcohol. John put the third glass – actually a coffee that was probably alcoholic – in front of the third chair at their corner table and settled into his own seat, passing Greg's pint across peaceably.

"What's going on?" Greg asked in that world weary tone that only beleaguered DI's could really manage.

"The lads at the bar found someone in the alley just near here, strung up in a net. The same one that the bloke in the Arsenal shirt has draped over his shoulders," John confided, "And I have good reason to believe that Sherlock will be joining us. He's in a bit of a mood, but don't let that put you off."

"After the day I've had, I doubt I'll notice," Greg replied, wondering if there was a connection between the netted prisoner and Sherlock. There probably was, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"And how was your day, Detective Inspector?" John asked using a tone that his patients must have loved. It was just the right mix of calm professional and caring warmth. If Greg could bottle it, he'd have the highest rate of confessions in the Yard.

"Actually, it wasn't the criminals I had a problem with," Greg sighed. Without fanfare, or even a greeting, Sherlock dropped moodily into the empty chair beside him and started toying with the cup of adultered coffee. John made his 'do go on' expression and recalled the DI to what he'd been saying. As Sherlock was so pointedly ignoring them it seemed best to return the favour and continue with his conversation, "It was the office politics that got to me today."

Over the course of the next two hours, he and John swapped 'war stories' of office politics, on-the-playing-field politics and anecdotes about secondary school dynamics. They consumed a total of three rounds – with Sherlock a sulky, silent drinker beside them – and a plate of chips to help absorb some of the alcohol. Three pints was about average for a drinking session between the two of them, so Greg was ready to call it a night when John checked the time and made 'going home' motions.

Sherlock had ignored them completely. John had bought two of the rounds, fishing Sherlock's wallet out of his inner jacket pocket to pay for one of them, an action which hadn't even earned him a huff. Sherlock's coffee was in fact an Irish coffee, which explained the flush on the normally pale cheeks and the long slow blinks that got longer and slower as the evening wore on.

The lads at the bar had sent Sherlock a drink called a 'mermaid cocktail' which had sat untouched in the middle of the table and seemed to confirm that Sherlock had somehow been involved in the incident with the net. Or perhaps 'caught up' would have been a more fitting descriptor, but as Greg actually valued his relationship with the consulting pest he judged it wiser not to say anything about the drink or the pun. John would tell him about it later, Greg was sure. That was another valued characteristic of John Watson – he knew when to hold his tongue and when to share a good story.

"Come on, Sherlock, home time," John said, putting his own coat on, "I'll see you next week, Greg, yeah?"

"Yeah, I'll text," Greg agreed, watching as John tutted and fitted his right shoulder under Sherlock's armpit and got him upright. Sherlock blinked like an owl in the sunlight and then frowned.

"The room is fizzing," he announced he announced in a slow drawl. Greg bit back on a snicker and watched John do the same. They shared a 'what can you do' look with each other and then John retuned his attention to the lanky man leaning against him. Given there was very little body mass on the thin genius and the likelihood that the man hadn't eaten for a while it was no wonder that the alcohol he'd ingested in the course of his sulk had gone straight to his brain.

"Yeah, the coffees were Irish, Sherlock. Didn't you notice?" John asked, nodding thanks to Greg when the DI helped him manoeuvre Sherlock through the now busy pub and onto the street.

"Just thought they were bad," Sherlock replied. John hummed in vague agreement and Greg waved down a passing cab, realising that there was no way the doctor would manage Sherlock on the Tube. The less interaction with the pubic that man had while inebriated the better – Greg had learnt that the _hard_ way, though it hadn't been anything so innocent as alcohol involved in that incident.

John poured Sherlock into the cab first, pushing him to sit on the side behind the driver. He shook Greg's hand and grinned at him again.

"I promise I will explain later."

"Good, because the curiosity has been killing me all evening," Greg confessed. John giggled and slipped into the cab, giving the address to the driver as he shut the door. Greg watched it go, shaking his head a little.

Whatever game the two of them were playing, it was sure to be a doozy.

%&%&


	5. Chapter 5

**The Fourth Attempt**

John gave the cabbie their address and checked that Sherlock wasn't nauseous from the movement of the vehicle, then leaned back and looked out his window. London at night was fascinating, something he never tired of looking at.

Three minutes into the drive, Sherlock announced his need for physical affection by curling himself around John and performing an action that could only be described as 'snuggling'. John wound a companionable arm around his flatmate and let a curly head rest on his shoulder.

Sherlock sighed and sat quietly. John didn't bother to try a conversation – he wasn't willing to rile his genius up once more after Sherlock's failed attempt in the alley with a 'wounded' decoy and a weighted net – returning his gaze to London on a Saturday night. The pub that he and Greg preferred was located in a sort of equidistant spot from the Yard, Baker Street and the DI's flat. It meant that they were able to avoid the worst of the inner city traffic and yet still see a broad cross section of the people who lived here.

"John," Sherlock mumbled as they pulled up outside Baker Street. John hoped that he wasn't about to announce immanent puking. They really needed to get out _before _that happened because John had no intention of cleaning a cab this evening.

"What's up Sherlock?" John asked, bracing himself. Sherlock snuggled even closer and John moved accommodatingly, shifting his arm.

"Why can't I kidnap you?" Sherlock whined.

_Snick-snick_

The click of the handcuffs closing around wrist and door handle was almost obscured by the sound of the cab pulling up.

"I hope you have the keys for those," John commented and met the cabby's eyes, "He's got your fare, mate."

He slipped out of the cab and crossed the footpath, ignoring Sherlock's indignant shouts in favour of opening the door and heading upstairs.

Thank god tomorrow was Sunday and their little bet would be over soon.

%&%&


	6. Chapter 6

**The Fifth (and Final) Attempt**

'That was probably a step too far' John mused as he lowered Sherlock's unconscious form carefully to the couch. In all the attempts that Sherlock had made to 'kidnap' John since their little… game? Challenge? Contretemps had begun, this was the only attempt where Sherlock had outright attacked John, attempting to overpower and manhandle him.

John's training had kicked in and he'd locked Sherlock into a sleeper hold before he'd stopped to consider what he was doing. Sherlock had struggled and then passed out, that marvellous brain of his unable to cope without a supply of oxygen.

"Breathing's not so boring now, is it?" John asked the unconscious man ruefully, and went to fetch a cold flannel, a glass of water and some pain killers for the headache that Sherlock would undoubtedly wake with. He added the orange blanket from the Pink case and sighed, fussing so things were just right. Thankfully, today was the last day of their little bet.

The downstairs door burst open and footsteps clattered hurriedly up the stairs. The door to the flat banged open and John wasn't sure what was more shocking: Mycroft Holmes running up the stairs to his brothers flat or Mycroft Holmes pointing a gun at him.

%&%&

'That was probably a step too far' Sherlock mused as consciousness crept back on reluctant feet. His head was pounding, but someone had made him comfortable, putting him on his couch, with a blanket, cold flannel and a cushion under his head.

'John' was the next thought; unfortunately it was one that involved opening his eyes. His ears were reporting that someone was standing quite close to him, and that there was another person a little distance away breathing calmly. He could smell gun oil and vanilla custard – Mycroft was close to him then and John was probably the one breathing calmly some distance away. Mycroft's surveillance must have picked up their latest little game and misinterpreted it.

Opening his eyes without changing his breathing pattern was more of a challenge than usual as his brain protested the sudden reintroduction of light. It was, to coin a phrase, a bit not good.

Even worse was the sight of John, sitting in his armchair with his ankles crossed, fingers linked loosely across his stomach while Mycroft pointed a gun at him.

In a flash, Sherlock was sitting up, distracting his older brother. John's union jack pillow went sailing across the room, knocking the gun aside and Sherlock had it out of Mycroft's hands in an instant, ejecting the clip and kicking it under the couch.

"Round in the breech, Sherlock," John settled back into his chair once more as Sherlock ejected said round before tossing the gun into the kitchen while Mycroft shouted uselessly and regained his balance.

"_You do not point guns at John, Mycroft_," Sherlock hissed, his eyes narrowed in fury as men from MI6 breached the downstairs corridor and swarmed towards the flat to protect their boss.

"You'd better take the pain killers, Sherlock," John recommended mildly, "I'd imagine your head is throbbing."

"Mmm," Sherlock muttered and took the pills as the door burst open, swallowing them as men fanned into the room in a classic SAS containment manoeuvre. In the back ground, Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson approaching, under her own steam, enquiring what all the noise was about.

"Hello Ted. How's the missus?" John asked the one on the left, much to Mycroft's poorly hidden shock. Or at least it was poorly hidden by Sherlock's standards, "I take it that leg wound healed properly?"

"Thanks to you, Doc John," Ted replied in an even tone, "And Susie is very well. I'll give her your regards."

The man's weapon didn't lower or falter during the exchange, nor did John's calm and easy demeanour. It was as if there weren't three other heavily armed men, the British Government and his little brother and an outraged landlady present at all. The two men could have been talking in the aisle of their local supermarket after a chance meeting.

"If you're quite finished," Mycroft wasn't used to having his presence, or his threats, ignored. Mrs Hudson made a worried sound from behind the third gunman, pressing herself against the wall.

"Put the guns away," John said softly, "There is no need for them. You're frightening Mrs Hudson."

"Do it Mycroft," Sherlock added his own demand to John's, "How dare you come in here with a gun, let alone bring friends with guns as well."

The f-word was deliberately chosen. Sherlock wanted his contempt for Mycroft's actions perfectly clear.

"Sir?" Ted asked and Mycroft nodded reluctantly. The four men lowered their guns at once, stepping back to move into positions where they could monitor the room without posing an overt threat. Sherlock dismissed them at once, looking at Mrs Hudson instead.

"It's alright Mrs Hudson. Mycroft is overreacting again. Why don't you go downstairs?" he suggested. Mrs Hudson fixed him with a gimlet eye but nodded.

"I'll bring you some tea for that headache, Sherlock," she offered and tutted at Mycroft on the way out, "Next time, young man, leave the guns at home."

Mycroft ignored her of course; too busy trying to intimidate John with a glare. John, naturally, was ignoring him in favour of cataloguing Sherlock as he sat up properly.

"Any spots or flashes on your vision?" John asked mildly. Sherlock shook his head, waving a hand to deny any symptoms.

"Perhaps one of you would be so good as to enlighten me," Mycroft clearly didn't like the idea that he didn't know what was going on. Sherlock thought it was brilliant – he did so love getting one over on his brother.

"Sherlock was under the impression that I was an easy target for abduction. He wanted to test that hypothesis and we've been working on it for the past week," John spoke up in his mildest tone. Sherlock secretly liked that tone quite a bit – it was warm and comforting and completely at odds with the dangerous man that he knew John to be. The dichotomy was delicious.

"And that required you to strangle him to the point of unconsciousness?" Mycroft's tone on the other hand was pointed and cold. Sherlock didn't like that tone being directed at John, but before he could register his dislike John sent him the Look.

"Unfortunately, Sherlock hit a trigger. My instincts kicked in and I neutralised him without thinking about it," John was actually remorseful about it, which would not do.

"It was the correct response, John," Sherlock interjected, "Force should be met with force and it's not like I've been injured in any way. In the future, your first action after knocking out an assailant should not be making them comfortable."

"Sherlock if someone was attacking me, I wouldn't be worrying about their comfort afterwards, believe me. I made an exception in your case," John informed him dryly and Sherlock quirked a little grin at his flatmate. John made a lot of exceptions for Sherlock – it was Good.

"Are we done, now Mycroft?" Sherlock injected a lot of boredom into that tone and the soldier called Ted had to hide a quick grin.

"Very well," Mycroft gestured with one hand. Before Sherlock could shout a warning the man nearest to John attacked him.

There was a flurry of movement as Mycroft tangled Sherlock in the blanket John had placed over him to keep him out of harms way and the other three soldiers shifted out of the field of combat, because that's what was happening in front of the mantelpiece.

John had been attacked from behind, but he'd been out of the chair in a flash, knocking it over as he did. The two men traded blows in silence, moving so quickly that it was hard to follow what was going on. A hand gun and two knives clattered to the floor as John disarmed his opponent rapidly. When they finally came to a halt John had the mans own weapon pointed at his head, the man himself on his knees in front of the former soldier.

"We're done," Mycroft jerked his head and the other three left, walking past Mrs Hudson as she hurried up the stairs with her tray of tea things.

"You lead with your left," John told the man he'd just beaten; "You want to watch that."

John ejected the clip and pocketed it, handing the empty gun back and stepping away cautiously. The armoured man grunted and got up, also heading for the door, which he actually held for Mrs Hudson.

"Goodbye Mycroft," John's tone was cold and hard, not at all welcoming. Sherlock's older brother nodded and left, which was brilliant as far as Sherlock was concerned.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson murmured, "You've hurt yourself John."

"It's nothing, Mrs Hudson. I'll wash up and be back in a mo'," John replied, dabbing at the cut on his lip and glancing over bloodied knuckles. He headed for the door, righting his chair as he did so, "I'm dying for a proper cuppa."

"John?" Sherlock called as his flatmate reached the door, "You were right. I retract my earlier statement."

John nodded, his eyes wide. Fortunately he chose not to make a fuss over Sherlock admitting that his flatmate had a point. If that had happened Sherlock may never have admitted it again.

**END**


End file.
